


post-apocalyptic

by pasdecoeur



Series: batlantern works [3]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Justice League: War
Genre: Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, bruce is a headcase but he's a headcase IN LOVE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 20:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17432786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdecoeur/pseuds/pasdecoeur
Summary: Three calls, closing in on midnight. Bruce attempts to fix a mistake.





	post-apocalyptic

It was past eleven when her phone rang. ‘Bruce Wayne,’ the caller ID said, and _there_ was a name she hadn’t expected at all.

“Hey, Bruce.”

“Carol, hello,” said the warm, rich voice on the other hand, still familiar though it had been, what, years? Since they last spoke? “It’s been a while,” he said, as if he’d read her mind. “Thanks for taking my call.”

She chuckled politely. God, this was strange. The last time she’d seen him, Bruce had been ferrying the December issue twins from Vogue Arabia’s cover into an elevator, while they attempted to wrestle off his tuxedo with their _teeth._ “Of course, Bruce. How are you doing these days?”

“Not too bad. I heard about your new contract with the DoD, for the jet propulsors. Sounds like something out of a sci-fi novel.”

“Mm. I always liked Phillip K. Dick,” she murmured idly, and Bruce laughed.

“More Douglas Adams, I thought,” he teased, and her laugh was more honest this time. She had forgotten how well-read he was, perfectly conversant in everything from Chaucer to Feynman to Tolkien. Odd, the things you remembered. “But that’s not why I called.”

Of course not. “I didn’t think so, no.”

“I’m actually shuttling over to your neck of the woods, next week. Fundraiser for Senator Millibrand. I was hoping you could make an appearance.”

“Interfering in local politics, Bruce?” Carol asked dryly, though the hairs on her neck were startled to prickle. It was a fine-honed instinct, borne from years of board meetings, but there was something going on here, that was more than just a party invite.

“She’s a decent sort, Millibrand,” Bruce said. “Minimal skeletons, decent sense of fair play, miraculously idealistic for someone in DC.”

Of course, Carol’s stupid instinct tended to always go wonky around Bruce.

For ages, she’d thought that was because he was sort of ridiculously beautiful, and Hal had, for years, provoked the same reaction–but then Hal went and turned out to be the Green Lantern, didn’t he? So maybe Bruce Wayne _was_ hiding something, even if it wasn’t a mask and a lot of ugly spandex.

“Socialist, pro-wealth tax, pro-minimum wage, pro-shelter cities,” Carol rattled off just as fast.

“I think we both can afford that.” They both already did, of course. Wayne Enterprises paid 150% of the minimum wage, and so did Ferris Air; they both hadn’t dropped profit margins a single point. “Listen,” he said briskly, “bring a date. It’s not a fun crowd, I’ll be honest, the Coast City Democrat super-donors. Get one of your flyboys to keep you entertained.”

“Oh?”

“Just a suggestion.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It walked liked a suggestion and quacked like a suggestion but–

“Anyone in particular you’d like to meet?” she asked baldly, and there it was, for a second: a brief, quiet pause.

And then he laughed, that old, infectious Brucie Wayne laugh, playboy bred to the bone, smoky and deep and full of promise. She couldn’t help but smile too. “Get someone pretty, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I’ll count it as a personal favor.”

“You haven’t met Jordan, have you?” Carol asked casually, but her gut was screaming at her now. What was she missing? _What was she missing?_ Bruce made a noncommittal sound. “You’ll like him, I think. Former Air Force, but I try not to hold that against him.”

“Sounds like a plan.” And sure, Carol might had just made the leap into full-blown dementia, but she could swear–for the first time in their conversation, Bruce sounded _pleased._

* * *

 

There were two missed calls from Carol on his phone when Hal got in, and he sighed irritably, and then immediately spent a few minutes feeling guilty about it.

It was just–It had been a long day.

He was right in the middle of telling himself he didn’t deserve a friend like her, when the phone buzzed again, Carol’s face smiling beatifically at him from the screen.

“Yo.”

Carol sighed deeply. “Hello, Jordan.” Ooof. ‘Jordan’? Really? He hadn’t even been in town to fuck anything up, why was she mad???

“Um.”  
  
“So I just got an interesting call a few minutes ago.” She wanted to chat. Cool. Cool. He could do that. Hal gritted his teeth, and collapsed onto the couch. There was a spring digging into his ass.

The apartment was a mess. The apartment was a pretty spot-on metaphor for his life. Jesus. Of course Bruce didn’t want anything to do with—Why had he even _thought—_

 _Because you’re an idiot,_ the voice in his head supplied. The voice in his head was an asshole.

“Is that right,” Hal mumbled.

“You don’t sound interested, Hal,” Carol purred over the phone, in a voice like icicles and murder. “Aren’t you interested?”

“Mmph.”

“I got invited to a party.”

Seriously, Care? “Sounds like torture.”  
  
“Hal,” she said, and it was so serious, all of a sudden, her voice quiet and incredibly low, that Hal tensed up on instinct, hand tightening reflexively around his ring. “Bruce Wayne’s coming to town,” she said, and oh no, oh fuck no, this wasn’t fucking _happening—_ “He says he’s throwing a fundraiser for Senator Millibrand, except here’s the funny thing: I put out a few feelers in the local chapter of Emily’s List. No one else has an invite.”

“Oh.”

“I’m the first person he called. Which makes me think this was maybe not so much a fundraiser as an excuse to be in Coast City a week from now.”

“I—Okay.” There was a pounding in his skull. Hal tried to breathe.

“And Bruce pretty much explicitly told me to bring you along.”

Hal was going to reply to that. He had an excellent reply for that: dry, and witty, just this side of cutting; he wasn’t going to betray Bruce’s secrets, because his head was too far up his own ass, not tonight for god’s sake.

 

 

It was funny, how he wasn’t saying anything.

“Honey,” Carol said quietly. “When you said, last week—When you said there was someone, on the League‐”

“Carol, please,” he begged hoarsely. Shit. Shit. He could’ve stopped this. He could have—

“Hush,” she said, gentle, soothing, and Hal fell quiet. “If he didn’t want me to figure it out, he would have hidden it better. Hal, when you said you were seeing someone—”

“That’s not what it was,” he interrupted.

“No?”

“Not—” and he hated how his voice sounded, soft and pathetic, “Not for him.”

“Oh, Hal, baby, you fucking idiot,” she murmured, like she was consoling something small and wounded. Hal closed his eyes, flopped back into his terrible couch. “Why do you think he invited you to his little soiree?”

“Not a lot of people know this,” Hal said, smiling blankly at his ceiling—there was a curiously bloodless sensation of knives being dug into his guts, and wasn’t it amazing, how easily the words were coming out of his mouth now, when it didn’t matter at all?—“but Bruce actually has a very low capacity for boredom—if he’s throwing a party for some do-gooder, he wants a blowjob at the end of it.”

“Hal.”

“People aren’t complicated, Care.” _‘Lantern. Where the hell do you think this is going?’_ he’d said, head tipped slightly to the side, while Hal stood there and slowly felt himself go numb. “People like to think they’re complicated, but they do things for only three reasons. Wayne’s already got a pretty decent bank account. And I look damn good on my knees.”

“Hal, honey, you gotta know that’s not it. He—”

“—doesn’t care, Carol. I gotta go.”

* * *

 

On some level, Bruce must have expected the call. The kids were out on patrol, but Bruce had opted to stay in tonight, asked Cassie and Barbara to alter their routes to keep an eye on Damien. Not that he needed it, anymore. Joining the Titans had been good for him, just as it had been for Dick and Tim.

But it was still a surprise, when the League comm alert came in and Bruce realized he was perfectly positioned to take this call without being interrupted or overheard.

Being aware of his own motivations was the one thing he had always been able to rely on—that Hal seemed to be able to blitz past all his defenses should have been alarming, it should _not_ have made his chest go tight with warmth—but that’s where he was right now, it seemed.

“Lantern,” he acknowledged, tapping the commlink open.

“So Carol called.” Hal’s voice was low, a throaty burr, the kind that went straight to his cock, except for how it was completely at odds with his words. “Said there’s a little shindig at your place, next week.”

“Did she.”

“Not really my thing, you understand, but I had some ideas,” Hal murmured, and there was a faint clicking sound, like a zipper slowly being dragged down a flightsuit. Wasn’t it boggling, the advances in sound quality they’d made on these comms. Bruce really needed to murder Victor one of these days. “For the afterparty.”

“Hal,” Bruce said, with a fist in his gut the size of the Schiaparelli crater, and a soft hum came through on the link, the faint rustle of fabric, and Hal said, “Problem was— _mm, god—_ problem was, I got a little invested in the plans, and now I’ve got this problem I need to take care of, so I thought to myself: You know who might help? Bru—”

_“Hal.”_

A quiet breath.

“That’s—” Bruce began, and realized his hands were white-knuckled around the armrests of his chair. He pried them off, one by one, and tried again. “That’s not what this is about. I don’t want—that.”

“You don’t.”

“No,” Bruce said, and then—choked, at the worst second possible.

“You motherfucker,” Hal said, conversationally.

“Hal, please— _”_ Bruce couldn’t recall when he’d closed his eyes, but now all he could see was Hal, and the conversation they’d had a week ago, if ‘conversation’ was even the word for it.

They had been on the Watchtower, in Hal’s quarters, because the only mattress Bruce had was down in the Founders’ chambers, and even Hal wasn’t actually allowed in there.

Bruce was trying to get his breath back, feeling a little disengaged from his body, lazily carding his fingers through the soft, thick strands of Hal’s hair, humming when soft, chapped lips brushed his collarbone at exactly the right spot. It shouldn’t have been comfortable—there were smeared streaks of his own come on his chest, and a tacky, half-dry film of sweat, but Hal was here, and Bruce felt good: everything else had become distantly secondary, unimportant.

It was not the first time they’d ended up there, that day even, and it was not the first time it had been that good—because it had been that good right from the start. From the first kiss, the first time Bruce had gotten his mouth on the thin, vulnerable skin of his neck, and Hal had groaned, _‘Bruce,’_ so soft and needy that he’d been afraid he would come just from that.

It was, though, the first time Hal said anything like what he did.

 _‘I didn’t expect this,’_ Hal had mumbled into his shoulder. He was lying practically on top of Bruce, and making no move to leave; it was possible that had something to do with Bruce’s hand on his hip, gripping him tightly, daring him to shift. It couldn’t have been comfortable. Hal didn’t seem to mind. _‘I didn’t expect you to want this.’_

Bruce had stilled, between one breath and the next. Because, of course, he hadn’t expected it either. He hadn’t—he _hadn’t—_

There was something pumping in his veins, a fear response so instinctive it forced him into action, and before he knew it, he had flipped them over, pinned Hal underneath him. Brown eyes watching him, a lazy smirk curling up the side of that brash, irreverent, kiss-bruised mouth, and a melting, glowing softness in his eyes; the hammering in his chest was growing louder and louder—Bruce had made a sound, in the back of his throat, before bending down and kissing Hal, attacking, devouring, practically shoving his tongue down Hal’s throat, and it couldn’t have been fun for him, except for how Hal was pitching off the bed, kissing back just as hard, just as desperate, and Bruce couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t _breathe—_

“Bruce,” Hal had whispered, pulling away, looking at him with some measure of alarm, cupping his face in broad, warm hands. “ _Bruce_ ,” he said, as ice-water doused his veins.

When Bruce spoke again, his voice was not his own—cold, flat, something of Selina’s bite in it: a borrowed voice.

Not his own.

 _‘Lantern,’_ he had said, in that blank, cruel tone, and Bruce knew now that it had been cruel, was forced to face the truth of it, _‘where the hell do you_ think _this is going?’_

He had been hard already, and so was Hal—the interruption had done nothing to stop that, of course not: Batman and the Green Lantern, two of the most physically able specimens on the planet, as long as you only counted humans, and so Bruce had dragged his hardening cock along Hal’s, dug his hand into that gorgeous ass, wrapped a hand around the both of them, and watched the light in Hal’s eyes dim, and harden, right before they closed, and they both gave themselves in to the blinding chase to orgasm.

“I only mean to say,” Bruce said now, into the deepening chasm of silence, “if I could—have a moment, to say what I—I should’ve—”

“Bruce.” Hal sighed. “It’s fine.”

“It _isn’t—”_

“I’m fine, alright? You don’t have to—let me down easy, or whatever it is you’re trying to do. It’s fine. I swear our working relationship won’t be compromised by this—well, not any _more_ at least—and you don’t have to worry about, Christ, anybody else finding out, if that’s the problem—”

“If I didn’t want anyone else to find out,” Bruce snarled impatiently, “I wouldn’t have called you to my fucking _house,_ Lantern, will you _listen._ ”

The other end of the line stayed quiet, and Bruce interpreted this as all the green-light he was going to get. Fair enough.

“My life—my life as Bruce Wayne is… constantly under scrutiny. If I was to be seen with you, it would be necessary to create an iron-clad narrative, something boring and public and widely-advertised.”

“Seen with you,” Hal repeated.

“Yes.”

“In our civilian identities.”

Bruce didn’t bother replying. Hal’s voice had acquired that flat, cold hardness that was more chilling than anything he’d ever heard—Bruce realized with a painful start that Hal had borrowed it from _him_ , that this was the way Bruce had sounded that day on the Watchtower.

“Because…” Hal continued carefully. “Because being seen together in our civilian identities, something you have violently objected to since the beginning of the League’s formation—this is now a possibility.”

Bruce swallowed. “I hope it is,” he replied, quietly, and there was no way to mask the depth of feeling there, the intense, visceral need— _’I hope I haven’t permanently fucked this up, I hope you don’t hate me, I hope you still want this, I hope, I hope, I need, I want—’_

“Jesus Christ,” Hal whispered.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus motherfucking Christ, you son of a bitch.”

“Hal.”

“No don’t you Hal me, you cocksucking piece of shit bastard, do you know what I’ve _been_ through, this past whole goddamn week??! And then you drop _this_ on me, and expect me to, what? React sanely? _Calmly?!”_

“Well,” Bruce murmured, and there was a strange faint hitch at the corner of his mouth, like an aborted smile, because if Hal was yelling at him then it was going to be okay, it was going to be okay, if Hal cared enough to chew his fucking ear off, then Bruce didn’t have to think about—about surviving without, about living the rest of his miserable life _without._ “There goes that hope.”

“Now,” Hal was grumbling, “now he chooses to be a fucking _smart-ass,_ for the love of Mary’s saggy left tit—”

“In my defense,” Bruce said quietly, “I only decided on the fundraiser today.”

“It took you a week to come up with that plan?” Hal retorted. “Boy, Gotham’s well-fucked, then, isn’t it?”

“It took me a week to realize I needed a plan,” Bruce said, and Hal went quiet, because of course he knew what that meant, of course he understood that Bruce had fought himself every step of the way, bled himself dry and then started again, before he decided he couldn’t—he could _not—_ he didn’t _want to &v_

Not without.

“Bruce.”

“You don’t have to be there,” Bruce said, then, and it was shocking, how those words miraculously issued themselves, without gouging right through his larynx, “if you don’t want to—”

“I do,” Hal replied, just as quiet, and maybe it was only assent, maybe it was more, maybe, maybe, and Bruce could have lived on that, lived on those two words like they were oxygen. “I want to.”

For a moment, it was quiet, but Bruce didn’t mind that. He could hear the soft sound of Hal’s breathing, the faraway hum of background noise, and he wondered if it would sound insane to tell Hal to leave the line open.

 _‘How long?’_ Hal might have asked, a wry, beautiful curve to his mouth. _‘Just leave it open,’_ Bruce would’ve said again. Hal would have understood.

“Hey Bruce?”

“Hmm.”

“You remember that problem I mentioned?” and that damned voice was back, the one that had Bruce leaning back in his chair, spreading his thighs wider unconsciously, letting his eyes fall shut, so it felt like Hal was right beside him, whispering the words right into his ears.

“Hmm.”

“Still a problem, babe,” Hal murmured, and god. Holy god. That should not have—felt the way it did, hunger and want and possession in a awful, cliche monosyllable.

“You in your flightsuit?” Bruce asked softly, and there was a whuff of air on the other end.

“Really. Phone sex. That’s where we’re at?”

“If you like.”

“...or?” Hal sounded considerably more alert, which was gratifying.

“Or you could suit up, and get over here, and I’ll see what I can do about that problem.”

Hal was laughing, low and throaty, and then the sound of wind filled his ears. “On my way. I’ll see you soon.”

He kept the line open, the whole way through, and it occurred to Bruce, that this was the sort of terribly childish urge teenage girls indulged themselves in — _‘You hang up!’ ‘No_ you _hang up!’_ — and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to care, not really.

Hal kept the line open. So did Bruce.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! hit kudos if you liked it <3  
> find me on tumblr [@pasdecoeur](http://pasdecoeur.tumblr.com)


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